


Dirty Laundry

by AsheRhyder



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Badass Jesse McCree, Blackwatch, Canon-Typical Violence, Crushes, Expendable Extras, Flustered Hanzo Shimada, M/M, Pining Jesse McCree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 21:02:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11745126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsheRhyder/pseuds/AsheRhyder
Summary: Jesse McCree is having a streak of bad luck. And, for a man whose bad luck gets him framed for hijacking a hypertrain, a week-long run of bad days is a dangerous prospect indeed.How's a man supposed to be a badass vigilante when he can't keep his clothes from getting wrecked every five minutes?





	Dirty Laundry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seizure7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seizure7/gifts).



Jesse McCree is having a streak of bad luck. And, for a man whose bad luck gets him framed for hijacking a hypertrain, a week-long run of bad days is a dangerous prospect indeed. 

 

It starts innocently. The handle of his mug of morning coffee snaps, spilling the liquid all over his chest and lap. He grumbles and tosses his clothes in the laundry machine. Some loose thread or another catches on the agitator, and by the time he realizes there’s a problem, his pants have split and his shirt is missing a sleeve. 

 

On the second day, he gets grape juice thrown at him by accident. He’s just minding his own business, walking behind the couch while Hana, Hanzo, and Genji are watching a movie, and Genji says something to Hanzo that makes his brother throw his juice box. Genji, of course, ducks, and McCree ends up with a splash of purple across his front. Hanzo, at least, looks mortified and tries to hide in the sofa. 

 

“Hey, McCree, come settle something for us,” Hana says to break the silence. He looks up from his damp shirt and raises an eyebrow. 

 

“Does it have anything to do with why the drinks are flying?” he asks. 

 

“They’re arguing over whether John McClane is hot.” 

 

Jesse’s face goes blank, and he turns to the Shimada brothers. Hanzo sinks further into the sofa cushions. Genji has a remarkably stubborn expression that makes him look far more like his brother than he would ever admit. On the screen, Bruce Willis sneaks through the halls of Nakatomi Plaza. 

 

“There’s three of you,” he says. “You can break your own tie.” 

“I count that as a “no”!” Genji cries triumphantly. Hanzo sneers at him, catches sight of McCree again, and quickly burrows back into the upholstery with a mumbled apology. Hana shudders. 

“I refuse to sexually objectify a centennial who isn’t here to consent or protest,” she says. 

 

Jesse shakes his head and tries not to, but ends up letting his gaze rest on Hanzo. Sure enough, that adorable pink flush spreads high across his cheekbones like a rosy knife. Jesse’s heart twists for something he can’t have. 

 

“Wouldn’t have thought you’d like the Bruce Willis type,” he says carefully. 

 

“I admire competence,” Hanzo replies tightly. He offers no further explanation. Jesse nods and hums and turns around. 

 

“Abstaining?” Hana raises an eyebrow. Jesse shrugs. 

“Didn’t really enjoy the later movies as much,” he says, “so I’m kinda biased. Anyway, I gotta go put this in the wash ‘fore it stains.” She laughs, but he just waves and heads out. Genji reminds him to use detergent, as if the nudist cyborg even knows where it is. Hanzo says nothing, and Jesse can’t even bring himself to hold it against him. Hanzo had been having plenty of fun before Jesse turned up, after all. The queasy feeling of rejection hangs heavy off him and drags his shoulders down. 

  
  


Jesse’s luck does not improve on the third day when a rusty sewage pipe above his room finally breaks, dropping fetid waste water through a ceiling weakened by years of untreated leaks and straight into his closet while he’s putting away his clean laundry. Athena and Torbjörn manage to contain the damage, but McCree’s spare clothes are all ruined. They move him to a new room on the other side of the compound while his old room gets cleaned up. 

 

The new room is right next to Hanzo’s. Jesse sees him as he slumps through the door to his new digs; it doesn’t take a deadeye to see the way Hanzo’s nose wrinkles at the scent of damp decay that hangs around him. McCree shuts the door before Hanzo can comment. 

  
  


The next day almost counts as a turnaround. Almost. They fight a giant robot and keep it from crushing a city. They catch the engineer manipulating the machine to make it look like an Omnic attack. They even make it out without casualties. 

 

Except for McCree. More specifically, except for McCree’s clothes. Near the end of the fight, Soldier:76 hits some vital part of the robot with his helix rockets and ruptures a series of tubes. Dark, viscous liquid sprays everywhere. Most of it douses McCree. By the time they make it back to the ship, the gunk has congealed unpleasantly. His hat keeps his hair and beard fairly clean, but is sacrificed for this small boon. His serape, chaps, and even his boots are a loss. The goo locks his spurs into place, and the only sound he makes when he walks is a slow, disgusting squelch. When he gets out of decontamination, his last set of clothes are a solidified mess. 

 

McCree doesn’t even bother trying to find proper replacements just then. He walks straight to his new room in nothing but a towel, ignoring the teasing catcalls and whistles that hurt less than the stares at his collection of scars.

He catches Hanzo at the door again, and the archer’s eyes sweep over him like a brand, picking up every reminder of the times he wasn’t fast enough or good enough to get out of the way. Of course Hanzo would be the one to catalogue his every failure. McCree sets his jaw and goes straight to bed before Hanzo can pass judgment on any of them. 

 

He dreams of Blackwatch, of bloody hands and silenced bullets. He wakes with a crick in his neck, an ache in his heart, and a chill in his feet. Not the most auspicious start of a day, but fitting, he supposes. 

 

Reyes fitted every Overwatch property with a secret stash of Blackwatch gear, as much for his own paranoia as for his agents’ inabilities to keep a pair of pants from getting stained. Jesse manages to sneak around the base without any of his teammates catching him before he finds it. There are socks, at least, and underwear. There are the kinds of pants and shirts that Blackwatch used, but none of his preferred accoutrements. The closest he can get is a length of tactical stealth wrap that he uses as a substitute serape. The only hat he can find is a beret. Better than nothing, he supposes.

 

The Jesse McCree who walks into the kitchen is an awkward blend of past and present. The black uniform of a Blackwatch agent makes him look severe, almost threatening. The cool stare he wears to cut down curious gazes is absolutely threatening and far too reminiscent of Reyes. He eats without a word.

Hanzo rises from the table mere moments after McCree sits down, whisking away his half-eaten meal. McCree’s shoulders drop in the almost too-tight suit, and he does not look up, so he doesn’t see the blush spreading across Hanzo’s face and neck. Hanzo’s shadow disappears down the hall. 

 

The call comes in shortly after lunch: a mission near Dorado, Los Muertos everywhere and mixing with Talon. Rumors fly of a strike to be made on Lumerico to bring the company to heel for Talon’s interests. 

 

Jesse joins Winston, Hanzo, Symmetra, Soldier:76, and Ana to intercept. The plane ride is silent. Jack stares. Hanzo stares. Hell, even Winston stares. McCree refuses to show his discomfort and reclines in his chair, eyes half-lidded. At least Satya and Ana don’t seem inclined to judge him. 

 

He glances up and sees Symmetra boring holes through his wrap with the power of her stare. 

 

Okay then. 

 

Well, at least Ana isn’t commenting. 

  
  


The battle itself is hot and messy. Los Muertos are supplying Talon with good weapons, and Talon is supplying Los Muertos with good numbers and military-grade tactics. McCree recognizes a few maneuvers from the Blackwatch playbook and shuts them down hard and fast, much to the annoyance of Talon’s tactician. He thinks it might be Burns from D company, but he hasn’t been able to get close enough to tell for certain. Whoever it is, they’re annoyed enough to have McCree sniped. He hears Hanzo shout a warning just before he gets the worst headache of his life. He wakes up six seconds later in the respawn room, still feeling groggy. He thanks his lucky stars for the respawn system; without it, he wouldn’t be waking up at all. 

 

Symmetra’s teleporter glows in front of him, and he steps through cautiously with Peacekeeper at the ready. He comes out on a little veranda. The sounds of fighting are distant and fading. The teleporter shorts out behind him, its charges spent, and he realizes the enemy has moved past without finding it. 

 

“McCree reporting,” he says into the comm so his team knows he’s back online. 

“Where the hell are you?” Soldier grunts. Something explodes near him. “They just hit the last checkpoint before the objective. We need you here now.” 

 

“Teleporter spat me out on the other side of the map. Think you can hold a line for about four minutes?” McCree’s eyes narrow and calm settles into his bones like a chill. Footsteps approach below. He tenses. 

 

“Might be faster if you just respawn again here,” Soldier says. McCree doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he crouches and watches an enemy step out into the courtyard underneath. He throws himself on top of the Talon agent like a mountain lion springing on an unsuspecting stag. He grabs the man’s neck as he lands, wrenching hard and fast. Vertebrae snap. The man drops dead. McCree stands up again. His eyes are dark and hard. 

 

“Beginning Black Spiral Maneuver,” he says. “Incoming in three-twenty. Going silent.” 

 

“What? McCree, what’s that--” Soldier’s demands shut off as McCree silences his comm and slinks forward. 

 

McCree approaches the side door and finds it guarded by a pair of Los Muertos. He tosses a stray bullet shell to distract them, then takes one out with a nearby potted cactus and the other with a well-placed left cross. He takes a few seconds to rig their comm units in a feedback loop, filling the enemy’s line with static and shrieks. Enemy agents give away their positions with hissed cursing, and he moves in. 

 

Up the stairs. Surprise the patrol. Gut shot. Headshot. Move on. 

 

Round the corner. One moving in to flank. Shadow. Headshot. Reload. 

 

Incoming reinforcements. Duck into a maintenance shaft. Drag the last one in as they pass. Mechanical hand on flesh throat. Squeeze. Drop. 

 

Step out. Flashbang. Fan the hammer. Grab the closest, use as a shield. Throw the body. Combat roll. Finish them off. 

 

“Black Spiral! Black Spiral!” the enemy tactician screams. Definitely Burns. “Check your six!” 

 

Sniper on the bridge, turning towards him at the warning. Steady. Aim. Fire. Take a bullet to the left side. Put a bullet in her head. 

 

Two more incoming, fresh from respawn. Flashbang. Bang. Bang. The bodies hit the floor. 

 

McCree walks out onto the bridge where the sniper used to be. Sees the control panel for the floor. Sees Hanzo across the way. The archer’s eyes go wide, and for a moment, Jesse falters. 

 

He must look like some kind of monster, standing there and dripping other people’s blood. His heart sinks, leaden in his chest. Words burn unspoken in his lungs. 

 

He stares. Locks on. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

 

Shoots the control panel. 

 

Plunges the room into darkness. 

 

Fires. Again. Again. Again. Again. 

 

Silence. 

  
  


Soldier drops a biotic field and his teammates stare in the brief, golden glow. Their enemies lie dead around them, every one of them with a bullet through the center of their skull. 

 

McCree takes one step forward. Two steps back. His composure waivers. Breaks. He sinks to his knees, reaches for his wounded side, and his hand comes away dripping red. So much red. 

 

Over the ringing in his ears, he thinks he hears Hanzo calling his name. 

 

But that’s just wishful thinking, isn’t it? 

 

The Black Spiral Maneuver ends in silence. In darkness. No survivors. No light. Nothing but darkness and death. 

 

And darkness claims him. 

 

_ He feels hands on him in the dark, brushing his hair away from his face, pressing against his throat to find his pulse, pushing against his wound until light sparks behind his eyelids.  _

 

__ _ “McCree!” Hanzo hisses. “Open your eyes! McCree!” His face contorts with concern. McCree tries to smile. He’s not quite sure he manages.  _

 

__ _ “Must be my lucky day,” he coughs. _

 

__ _ Hanzo puts more pressure on the wound.  _

 

__ _ “Do not think,” he whispers, “that I believe for one instant that any of this was mere  _ luck _ , Jesse McCree.” _

 

__ _ “Bad luck,” McCree sighs in agreement. “Shouldn’t have had to see that.”  _

 

__ _ “See you save your friends and allies?” Hanzo murmurs. His voice warms, and the warmth curls down to McCree’s toes. “See you stop the enemy and complete our mission?”  _

 

__ _ “Messy.”  _

 

__ _ Hanzo surprises him by laughing.  _

 

__ _ “You have had a messy week,” he says. “I wonder what you will find next to ruin.” There’s fondness in his tone. McCree can almost fancy it’s directed at him. Almost.  _

 

__ _ The darkness pulls at him again. He falls willingly to escape false hope.  _

 

__ _ “McCree? McCree! Jesse!”  _

  
  


Jesse wakes up feeling good, too good for someone who took a bullet to the liver and nearly bled out on the shiny Lumerico floor. 

 

“You did,” says Hanzo, sitting beside him and sipping coffee. Jesse startles and nearly falls off the medical cot. 

 

“Did what?” he asks. 

 

“Bleed out. You respawned at the new point just before the mission officially wrapped.” 

 

Jesse blinks and looks around. This is not Lumerico, though it may still be Dorado. 

 

“Why don’t I remember waking up, and how’d I end up here, then?” 

“Ana shot you with a sleep dart. I believe she was displeased with your choice of tactics.”

 

McCree thinks for a moment. That would do the trick. He sighs and moves to get up, only to realize he’s naked under the sheet. 

 

“Ah…” he pauses, trying to find a polite way to ask where the hell his clothes went. 

 

“Your gear is unsalvageable,” Hanzo say calmly. He punctuates his statement with another sip of coffee. “The blood may have been washable, though I doubt it, but there was other biohazardous material, which was not.” 

 

McCree shifts awkwardly under the thin cover. 

 

“Kinda past worrying about stains here, Hanzo,” he says. “Seeing as how I ain’t got any other duds to wear.” 

 

Hanzo’s gaze rolls over the swell of his muscles and the folds in the softness over top them. They trace the lines of his scars like featherweight kisses, reverential and relieved that he has survived each wound. McCree wonders if he ought to pull the sheet higher for modesty’s sake. 

 

“I fail to see how that is an issue,” Hanzo all but purrs. 

 

McCree’s face burns, but his tongue is as quick as ever, running away without him. 

 

“I reckon you don’t fail at anything so much as you decide you don’t feel like succeeding.” 

 

Hanzo blinks several times, visibly processing all the possible implications of McCree’s words. He goes through a spectrum of emotions --surprise, grief, guilt, confusion, embarrassment-- and finally settles on resigned amusement. 

 

“Untrue,” he says, “as I often fail in speaking clearly with you, and I would very much prefer to succeed there.” 

 

McCree’s jaw drops. 

 

“I beg your pardon?” 

 

“Apparently, I do so even now.” Hanzo sighs. 

 

“I just… I thought you didn’t like me very much?” Jesse swallows the lump growing in his throat at Hanzo’s dismayed expression. 

 

“I asked you to call me by my given name!” He protests, but only weakly, already surrendering his argument as lost. 

 

“It’s also your call sign,” McCree points out. “Which is helpful, because I don’t wanna warn the wrong brother about who needs to be where and when.” He catches Hanzo’s minute flinch at the words, “wrong brother”, and sentences spill out of him in a pathetic attempt to salve the wound he inflicted. “I mean. Don’t want Genji trying to run down an enemy sniper. I don’t want to send you in on the ground against a tank, either. Not that you couldn’t take down a tank, nor Genji deal with a sniper, but my point --and I did have one-- is that it ain’t the best plan when it could be the other way ‘round.” 

 

Hanzo eases into a smile. 

“Your concern is noted and appreciated,” he says. “As are you.” 

 

McCree chokes a little. 

 

“Half the time you wouldn’t even look me in the eye.” 

 

Hanzo starts to bury his face in his hands, catches himself, and sits up straighter. 

 

“Do you remember how we met?” 

 

“Genji brought you ‘round to make sure everyone knew you were on our side and not to give you any shit.” McCree also remembers the six or seven conversations he and Genji had before Hanzo had even arrived just to ensure the lesson would stick. Trust is a hard-won prize from the cowboy in the best of situations and Genji wasn’t taking any chances that McCree would build a grudge before Hanzo could make his own rapport. 

 

“Do you remember what I said?” 

 

“Ah, uh…” McCree does, though he’s tried to forget it. It was so obviously meant to be an inside joke between the brothers that he still feels a little bit like a heel for eavesdropping. “Something about Clint Eastwood rising from the grave, wasn’t it?” 

 

Hanzo’s cheeks turn rosy. 

 

“In Japanese. And you replied in the same, albeit with an atrocious accent and in Kansai dialect, but you understood and were able to reply.” Hanzo looks away but quickly turns back. “I was mortified that I underestimated you so soon. Then you continued to surprise me at every opportunity. You have skill, and you take obvious care in your actions despite appearances. It is… intriguing. Enticing.” He inhales deeply. “As is your nobility.” 

 

“Nobility?” McCree leans forward, face folded in concern. “Did you get hit in the head last mission?” 

 

Hanzo sighs. 

 

“The fact of the matter is this: I find you attractive to the point of distraction, and I make a fool of myself for it. There. I have admitted it.” He looks adorably pleased with himself for getting the words out, so much so that McCree doesn’t actually process what was said for a moment. 

 

“I-- you-- what?” He feels his heart leap and pound like it wants to climb out of his throat or break through his ribs. 

 

“I find you attractive,” Hanzo repeats, slower, confidence melting out from under him with every syllable. “I find you clever and kind; kind enough, I hope, to pretend I have not offended you with my regard, and to let us continue to work together--” 

 

“No!” McCree interrupts, and Hanzo stiffens at the sudden noise, then seems to fold down with quiet acceptance. 

 

“I understand,” he says, but McCree shakes his head, dropping his sheet to grab at Hanzo’s hand before the archer can pull away.

 

“I wanna take you out,” McCree tries to explain. “On a date. Because I-- I feel the same. I just didn’t think you--” he swallows down his nerves as despair transforms into hope on Hanzo’s face. ‘What I mean to say is that I like you a lot, and I’d like to spend some more time with you. I just can’t right now, on account of all my clothes being wrecked.” 

 

Hanzo smirks. 

 

“Fortunately,” he says, “I do not think that will actually be a problem.” 

 


End file.
